"I ... can't tell you."
"But you can tell me this: are you booked on the Minneapolis?"
"No—o; it is a—quite another boat."
"Of course!" he commented savagely. "It wouldn't be me to have any sort of luck!"
She made no reply beyond a low laugh. He stared gloomily out of his window, noting indifferently that they were passing the National Gallery. On their left Trafalgar Square stretched, broad and bare, a wilderness of sooty stone with an air of mutely tolerating its incongruous fountains. Through Charing Cross roared a tide-rip of motor-busses and hackney carriages.
Glumly the young man foresaw the passing of his abbreviated romance; their destination was near at hand. Brentwick had been right, to some extent, at least; it was quite true that the curtain had been rung up that very night, upon Kirkwood's Romance; unhappily, as Brentwick had not foreseen, it was immediately to be rung down.
The cab rolled soberly into the Strand.
"Since we are to say good-by so very soon," suggested Kirkwood, "may I ask a parting favor, Miss Calendar?"
She regarded him with friendly eyes. "You have every right," she affirmed gently.
"Then please to tell me frankly: are you going into any further danger?"